Children of the Alley

by Naguib Mahfouz

  “But with every step I take, I find something sad or disturbing,” said Qassem, protest written clearly on his face. “Adham never dreamed of leisure or wealth except as a way to real happiness.”

  All three of them were silent for a while, until Hassan said innocently, “That kind of real happiness will never exist.”

  “Unless everybody has a chance at it,” said Qassem with a dreamy look in his eyes.

  He thought this over, how he enjoyed money and leisure, but the misery of others spoiled his happiness. He submissively paid protection money to Sawaris; that was why he wanted to do something with his leisure time, almost to escape from himself, or from this cruel alley. Perhaps had Adham got what he wished for, and become like Qassem, he might have grown weary of happiness and yearned for work.

  It was at about this time that strange symptoms began to befall Qamar; Sakina said that they were signs of pregnancy. Qamar could scarcely believe her. Her hope of pregnancy was her greatest dream, so she was consumed with joy, and Qassem’s heart was filled with bliss: he spread the news in every corner where he had loved ones. It was learned in his uncle’s house, the coppersmith’s shop, Uwais’ grocery and Yahya’s hut. Qamar went to great lengths to give herself proper care, and she told Qassem in a very meaningful tone of voice, “I have to avoid any strain.”

  He smiled, understanding what she meant. “Sakina will have to take care of all the household duties, and I will have to be patient!”

  “I could kiss the ground you stand on, I’m so grateful!” she said in an almost childishly exuberant tone.

  He went to the desert to visit Yahya, but stopped at Hind’s Rock, passed into its shade and sat down. He saw at some distance a shepherd tending his sheep, and his heart flooded with emotion. He wished he could tell him, “Man is not made happy by power alone; in fact it doesn’t make him happy at all.” But wouldn’t it be better to say that to powerful men like Lahita and Sawaris? How tenderly he thought of the people of his alley, who dreamed futilely of happiness; it was never long before time threw their dreams away with the trash that filled the garbage heaps. Why not savor the happiness he had, and close his eyes to what lay around him? Perhaps this question had once perplexed Gabal, and later Rifaa—it would have been possible for them to savor comfort, and enjoy peace and quiet for as long as they lived. What is the secret of the torment that stalks us? He pondered this, gazing at the sky over the mountain, clear except for small bits of cloud, like the scattered petals of a white rose. He lowered his head in what seemed like exhaustion, and something moving caught his eye: a scorpion scurrying toward a rock. He quickly lifted his staff and brought it down on the scorpion, crushing it; he stared at it a long time in revulsion, then got up and resumed his journey.

  72

  Qassem’s household welcomed a new life, and the poor of the neighborhood shared their joy. She was named Ihsan, after the mother he had never known, and with her birth, the house came to know new kinds of crying, dirtiness and sleeplessness. She also gave it new delight and contentment. But why did the father’s mind and gaze sometimes wander, as if pursued by cares? It made Qamar deeply thoughtful and uneasy, until she asked him one day, “Are you not well?”

  “Of course I’m well.”

  “But you’re not yourself.”

  “God knows how I am,” he said, looking away.

  She hesitated a moment before asking, “Is it something about me that’s not right?”

  “There isn’t anyone I love as much as you,” he said firmly, “not even our precious baby.”

  “Maybe it’s the evil eye.” She sighed.

  “Perhaps.” He smiled.

  She felt sorry for him and burned incense for him, and prayed for him from the bottom of her heart. One night she was awakened by Ihsan’s crying, and did not find him by her side. At first she thought he had not come home after his evening in the coffeehouse, but when the baby stopped crying, the woman realized that the alley was immersed in the profound silence that prevailed only well after the coffeehouses had closed. Doubtful, she got up, went to the window and looked out at the total darkness that enveloped the slumbering alley. She went back to the baby, who had now started crying again, and gently offered her her breast, wondering what could have made him this late, for the first time in their life together. Ihsan fell asleep, and Qamar again left her bed for the window. When she heard nothing, she went out into the hall and woke up Sakina. The slave sat up dopily, but jumped anxiously out of bed when her mistress told her why she had come to talk to her. The slave immediately decided to go to Zachary to ask about her master. Qamar wondered what could have kept him in his uncle’s house until this hour, and her own answer shattered her hope, but she did not prevent Sakina from going. Perhaps something unexpected was afoot; or at least his uncle might offer her help in her bewilderment. When Sakina had left, she began to wonder, again, what was keeping him. Did it have something to do with the change in his moods? Or with his excursions into the desert in the afternoons and evenings?

  Sakina roused Zachary and Hassan with her cries. Hassan said that Qassem had not spent the evening with him; Zachary asked when his nephew had left the house, and Sakina told him it had been early in the afternoon. The three of them left the building, and Hassan went next door, coming back with Sadeq, who said uneasily, “It’s nearly dawn! Where could he have gone?”

  “Maybe he fell asleep at Hind’s Rock,” said Hassan.

  Zachary ordered the slave to go back to her mistress and tell her that they were going to search for him as best they could, then the three set out toward the desert. Feeling the damp of the autumn night, they tightened their turbans around their heads. They were guided by the late month’s crescent moon, shining from a star-studded patch of sky from which the clouds had receded. “Qassem! Qassem!” shouted Hassan in a voice that split the air like a shooting star, and his voice echoed back repeatedly from the direction of Muqattam. They quickened their pace until they reached Hind’s Rock, then fanned out around it, searching, but they found no trace of him.

  “Where has he gone?” asked Zachary in his deep voice. “He wouldn’t be playing a trick, and he has no enemies.”

  “And there’s no other reason he’d have to run away!” murmured Hassan perplexedly.

  Sadeq remembered that the desert was not spared the presence of bandits and his heart sank in his chest, but he said nothing.

  “Might he be at Yahya’s?” Zachary asked weakly.

  “Yahya!” the two young men shouted together, given relief from despair.

  “What could have brought him there?” Zachary asked sadly.

  They began walking in silence toward the edge of the desert, thinking black thoughts, and hearing from afar the crowing of cocks, but the darkness was unrelieved because of the heavy clouds. Sadeq made a sound like a soft sigh, and he said, “Qassem, where are you!” Their journey seemed futile, but they kept going until they stood before Yahya’s sleeping hut. Zachary went up to the door and knocked with his fist until he heard the old man’s voice: “Who’s at the door?”

  The door opened, and the figure of Yahya appeared, leaning on his stick.

  “Pardon us,” said Zachary apologetically. “We have come to ask about Qassem.”

  “I’ve been expecting you!” said the old man calmly.

  His answer buoyed their spirits at first, but the anxiety quickly returned.

  “Have you heard from him?” asked Zachary.

  “He’s asleep, inside.”

  “Is he all right?”

  “God willing!” Then, with deliberate matter-of-factness, he added, “He’s all right now. Some of my neighbors were coming home from Atuf, and they found him at Hind’s Rock—he was unconscious. They carried him here, and I spattered his face with perfume until he woke up, but he was very tired, so I let him sleep—he fell asleep again in no time.”

  “I wish you had let us know,” said Zachary rebukingly.

  “They brought him at midnight,” said Y
ahya with unchanged calm. “I couldn’t find anyone to send to you.”

  “He must be ill,” said Sadeq uneasily.

  “He’ll be fine when he wakes up,” said the old man.

  “Let’s wake him up and check on him,” said Hassan.

  “We’ll have to wait until he wakes up on his own,” said Yahya firmly.

  73

  He sat in the bed, his back propped up against a pillow, pulling the blanket up over his chest, a thoughtful look in his eyes. Qamar was sitting cross-legged by his feet, holding Ihsan at her breast. The baby was moving her hands constantly, and making soft, strange, undecipherable sounds. A thread of smoke rose from the incense burner in the middle of the room, twisted, then broke and diffused its fragrance, as if confiding a delicious secret. The man stretched his hand out to the bedside table for the glass of caraway drink, sipped at it slowly and replaced it, empty except for the dregs. The woman whispered sweetly to the baby and cuddled her, but the uneasy glances she stole at her husband showed that her baby talk and dandling were only a mask for her feelings.

  “How are you now?” she finally asked.

  He turned his head instinctively toward the closed door of the room, then toward her. “It’s not sickness,” he told her calmly.

  “I’m glad to hear that,” she said, confusion in her eyes. “But tell me what in God’s name is wrong with you!”

  “I don’t know!” he said, after hesitating a few moments. “No, that isn’t what I should say. I know everything, but—the truth is, I’m afraid that our days of peace are over.”

  Suddenly Ihsan began to cry, and Qamar quickly gave her her breast and looked at him with a searching and anxious gaze. “Why?”

  He sighed and pointed to his chest. “I have a big secret here, too big for me to keep alone.”

  “Tell me about it, Qassem!” she lamented, even more worried.

  He shifted a little as he sat, his eyes serious and purposeful. “I’ll tell it, for the first time. You’re the first person to hear it, but you have to believe me. I’m only telling the truth. Last night something really strange happened there, by Hind’s Rock, while I was alone in the night and the desert.”

  He swallowed hard, and she encouraged him with a loving look.

  “I was sitting and watching the crescent moon go down, which was covered up by the clouds pretty quickly, and then it was so dark that I was thinking of getting up, when all of a sudden I heard a voice nearby: ‘Good evening, Qassem.’ I was shaking from the surprise, because there hadn’t been any sound or movement before that. I looked up and saw the figure of a man standing one step away from where I was sitting, but his face couldn’t be seen. I could make out his white turban, and the cloak he was wrapped up in. I hid my exasperation, and told him, ‘Good evening! Who are you?’ He answered me—who do you think he said he was?”

  Qamar shook her head apprehensively and said, “Go on—I can’t wait.”

  “He said, ‘I am Qandil.’ I was amazed, and I told him, ‘Forgive me, I—’ But he interrupted me, and said, ‘I am Qandil, servant of Gabalawi’!”

  “What did he say?” the woman cried.

  “He said, ‘I am Qandil, servant of Gabalawi.’ ”

  The mother’s sudden movement pulled her breast away from the baby’s mouth, and her face contracted, about to cry, but the woman readjusted herself and said, her face pale, “Qandil, the servant of Gabalawi? No one knows anything about his servants. His excellency the overseer prepares all the things the mansion needs, his servants bring them to the mansion, and Gabalawi’s servants take them in the garden.”

  “Yes, that’s what people in our alley say, but this is what he told me.”

  “Did you believe him?”

  “I stood up as fast as I could, partially to be polite, and partially to be ready to defend myself if I had to. I asked him how I was supposed to know he was telling the truth, and he told me, very calmly, very sure of himself, ‘Follow me, if you want, so that you can see me go into the mansion.’ So I was reassured, and said to myself that I’d believe him so that he’d explain himself. I didn’t hide the fact that I was very happy to meet him. I asked him about our ancestor, how he was doing and what he did.”

  “You two talked about all that?” Qamar interrupted, stunned.

  “Yes, I swear to God, but listen! He said that our ancestor was fine, but he didn’t say anything more. So I asked him if he knew what was happening in our alley. He said that Gabalawi knew everything—that the dweller in the mansion watches every small thing that goes on in our alley, and that was why he had sent him to me!”

  “To you!”

  Qassem frowned restlessly. “That’s what he said. I let something slip out that showed how surprised I was, but he didn’t pay any attention. He said, ‘Maybe he chose you because you showed wisdom the day of the robbery and because of your honesty in your house. He wants to inform you that all the people of the alley are equally his grandchildren, that the estate is their inheritance on an equal basis and that gangsterism is an evil that must be eliminated. And that the alley must be an extension of the mansion.’ Then there was silence, as I had lost the power of speech. I looked up, and my eye caught the highest clouds as they pulled apart and showed the crescent moon. I asked him politely, ‘Why is he telling me that?’ And he answered, ‘So that you can do it yourself.’ ”

  “You!” gasped Qamar.

  “That’s what he said,” Qassem went on, his voice trembling. “I was going to ask him to explain, but he saluted me and went away, and I did follow him, until it seemed to me that I saw him go up to the highest wall of the mansion, facing the desert, on a very high ladder, or something like that. I just stood there—I was amazed. Then I went back to where I had been before. I wanted to go to Yahya’s, but I blacked out, and only came to in his hut.”

  Silence again descended upon the room. Her dazed eyes never left his face. Sleep slowly closed Ihsan’s eyes as she suckled, and her head drooped against her mother’s forearm, so Qamar laid her gently on the bed and resumed watching her husband with anxious eyes and a pale face. Sawaris’ coarse voice rose from the alley cursing a man, along with the man’s shouts and groans as he was being slapped and beaten; then Sawaris’ voice again, raised in warnings and threats as he walked away, and the man’s cry of rage and despair: “Gabalawi!” Qassem asked his soul, burdened with his wife’s looks, What do you think of me? The woman said to herself, He is telling the truth, he has never lied to me; why would he make up such a story? He is trustworthy. He is not interested in my money, though he could have got it safely. So why would he want the estate’s money, which would be so dangerous to try to get! Were their days of peace really over?

  “I’m the first person you’ve divulged the secret to?”

  He nodded.

  “Qassem, our life is one life. I don’t care about myself as much as I care about you. Your secret is dangerous, and you know what its consequences are. But think, really try to remember, and tell me, was it real, what you saw, or perhaps a dream?”

  “It was real and true. It was not a dream,” he said determinedly, and a little resentfully.

  “They found you unconscious?”

  “That was after the meeting!”

  “Maybe you were confused,” she said tenderly.

  He sighed, more pained than he had ever been, and said, “I didn’t confuse anything. The meeting was as clear as a sunny day!”

  “How do we know,” she said, after hesitating somewhat, “that he was really Gabalawi’s servant and his messenger to you? It might have been any drunk or drug addict from the alley—there are so many of them!”

  “I saw him go up to the mansion wall,” said Qassem stubbornly.

  “In our whole alley, there’s no ladder tall enough to go halfway up that wall!” She sighed.

  “But I saw him!”

  She was like a mouse in a trap, but she did not give up. “It’s only that I’m afraid for you. You know what I mean. I’m afrai
d for our house and our daughter and our happiness. I have to ask myself: Why did he come to you in particular? Why doesn’t he carry out his will himself, when the estate is his, and he’s lord over everybody?”

  “Why did he go to Gabal or Rifaa?” he asked in turn.

  Her eyes widened, and the corner of her mouth contracted, like that of a child about to cry. She looked away, frightened.

  “You don’t believe me,” he said. “I’m not asking you to believe me.”

  She burst into tears, and abandoned herself to her sobs as if to escape from her thoughts. Qassem leaned toward her, reached his hand out to hers and pulled it toward him. “Why are you crying?”

  She looked at him through her tears, gulping and sobbing. “Because I believe you. Yes, I believe you, and I’m afraid our days of peace are over!” Then in a soft, pitying voice: “What are you going to do?”

  74

  The air of the room was heavy with tension and anxiety. Zachary was frowning and thoughtful, while Uwais stroked his mustache, and Hassan seemed to be talking to himself. Sadeq’s eyes were locked on the face of his friend Qassem; Qamar sat alone in a corner of the reception room, praying God to guide them all to reason and righteousness. Two flies hovered around their empty coffee cups. Qamar called for Sakina to clear away the tray, and the slave came and took it, and reclosed the door behind her.

  Uwais took a breath and said, “This secret is going to wreck our nerves!”

  A dog yelped in the alley, as if he had been hit with a stone or a stick, a peddler’s voice rose, in a singsong pitch for dates, and an old woman cried miserably, “O Lord, enough of this life.”

  Zachary turned to Uwais. “Uwais, you’re the biggest and most eminent of any of us—you tell us what you think!”

  The man shifted his gaze between Zachary and Qassem. “The truth is that Qassem is a fine man, but his story has made me dizzy!”

  “He is a truthful man,” said Sadeq, who had been eager to speak the whole time. “I challenge any person to think of one lie he has ever told. I believe him—I swear it to you on my mother’s grave!”